Work is not oppressive

I wonder if you travel by cycle-rickshaw. I wonder because recently, some friends mentioned that they suffer too much guilt on account of the fellow pulling the rickshaw.

I rarely feel guilty, except when I see three full-bodied adults pulled by an elderly man who looks like his lungs could do with a year in a sanatorium. But after a few years in Mumbai, I saw rickshaws as some of my friends (Mumbai-bred, or NRIs) do - an artefact in the museum of oppression.

I examined my feelings towards hand-pulled rickshaws in Kolkata and thought that I couldn’t bring myself to ride one. So, although I continued to hire cycle-rickshaws, I told myself that perhaps I’m blind to the oppression dangling from the handlebars. Perhaps I owed my lack of guilt to middle class antecedents. Most of my childhood memories are from Lucknow where cycle-rickshaws were the only affordable mode of transport, although we did haggle for better rates (much as we do with auto-rickshaw drivers now).

Then, I visited the UK, where taxis were an indulgence I couldn’t afford. Besides, I wanted to walk around London. But I was wearing high heels that day, and so I ended up barefoot and ready to weep from exhaustion. And lo! What do I see?

A clutch of cycle-rickshaws wafting about. These bright rickshaws were clearly a tourist attraction and confined to a touristy part of town. I didn’t think I could afford them, but a puller - a six-foot-plus, beefy blonde - approached me.

I mentioned my destination; he whipped out a map; he quoted five pounds; I hopped on. Along the way, I asked questions - who he was, whether he made enough, did he eat well? He was a Polish immigrant. Yes, he made enough to eat well and sleep safe.

And suddenly, the penny dropped and the rickshaw guilt slid off my back. Once again, I saw the cycle-rickshaw as it was — a much-needed service, a healthy alternative to motor vehicles, a joyride.

But what we call the humble, besieged ricksha in Lucknow becomes a pedicab or ‘eco chariot’ in London. What I paid in London would cover a coffee and croissant in a nice sit-down cafe. Or it would buy a couple of sandwiches, muffins, and maybe some milk at the supermarket. For the same distance, a Lucknow puller gets paid Rs 15, not enough to buy one paratha at a dhaba.

Ever since, I’ve been thinking about why liberal middle class Indians feel guilty. After all, we all work with our bodies. Writers to a smaller extent; actors to a larger extent. Why is the rickshaw pullers’ work seen as oppressive? And if we are guilty, then why not include construction workers and farm labourers in our circle of guilt? If we cannot ride cycle-rickshaws, we should not live in apartments or wear cotton.

Now, farmers are safely tucked out of sight, in villages, and construction workers go away once their job is done. But rickshaw-pullers must work in front of our eyes. We see how poor they are, and I suppose we feel guilty because we know this deal is unfair for one of us. We are reminded of how much we spend at cafes and how little we pay rickshaw-pullers.

But instead of paying more, we pity the puller. We put him out of work by not allowing cycle-rickshaws. Or restricting his routes so severely, he can never earn enough.

So if you do feel guilty, remember that work isn’t oppressive; poverty is. Hail the next cycle-rickshaw you see. Just pay the puller the equivalent of what an ‘eco-chariot’ driver charges in London.

Annie Zaidi writes poetry, stories, essays, scripts (and in a dark, distant past, recipes she never actually tried)